Trafalgar
by Prophet-Domino
Summary: The naval battle of the century, England's finest hour. Documenting the story of the crew of the HMS Excalibur, their bravery, and how once again the country of England was saved by its undying protectors, reincarnated throughout history to guard her when she needed it most. Part 2 of 'Guardians of the Realm.' Really midgety One-shot. Gen. Also on Ao3.


The water lapped quietly at the edge of the keel, the slaps against the side foreshadowing the cannonfire that was sure to come.

The hands below deck were quiet, strained; every so often a ragged boy would come running up from the stores, bringing precious supplies of shot and gunpowder to the men that waited, armed and ready at the rear of their guns, viewing the scene from outside through the gunports with baited breath. The French and their allies had their ships facing off the British vessels, like they were trying to stare the lesser fleet down.

All was quiet.

All was still.

And then, slowly, the ships began to advance like the armies of hell ominously crawling from the underworld out of the fog that hung over the ocean as a blanket obscuring the dark waters beneath them. Two columns of ships creeping forwards to annihilate the French line- a risky move, one wrong action turning the tide of battle and setting their enemies ablaze. Each cannon was loaded with shot; the sort that could tear through a hull like it was newspaper, splintering the timber into lethal oaken needles.

'All men to Battle Stations!' was the command barked from somewhere above, and anyone not yet issued to a gun scurried to one like ants to their queen.

The wood creaked beneath them as the _HMS Excalibur_ began to pick up speed, one of England's mightiest weapons pulled out of the dock, chasing across the seas and thrust into battle in unfamiliar waters, charging towards its European adversaries like a rampaging bull. And yet despite all this, the shout of 'hold fire… hold your fire…' was uneasily repeated through the air as the first dreadnought battleships began to fire on the English fleet, the wildly overpowering noise of battle rising up to meet them like a stormfront colliding with the defences of a harbour, demolishing the morale of those that stood in its path. Jeering like children or howling like berserkers, the roar of cannon and the occasional spattering hail of the gunners all echoing over the flat plane of the water, amplifying until it seemed to writhe inside the minds of the men cooped up inside the ships like a parasitic creature that would send even the bravest running, if they didn't happen to be stuck on a ship with no way back.

Bearing down on the enemy line, just behind the flagship _Victory, _the crew of _Excalibur_ began to stir, restless, hearing the sound of the conflict starting to deconstruct the upper deck, smashing the side of the ship and scything down troops on the top deck. Men had already been killed in a wave that had not yet reached the lower decks, and the ship was yet to return the attack.

'Hold steady men…. For the honour of your country, hold steady,' was the voice of their commander, firm and unyielding.

Gwaine snorted in petulant response. 'Prefer a payrise to honour, my friend. Or the touch of a beautiful woman.'

'Behave yourself. We're in the midst of battle-' Elyan paused, ducking as a rogue cannonball shattered the hull not fifteen feet from where he was crouched over the gun, a sudden ironworked mass that broke the concentration of every sailor as it flew through a trajectory perilously close to the men '-and you're talking about sex? You need to learn when a good time to talk is.'

'Any time is a good time to talk if it's about women.' He grinned, rolling his eyes in the melodramatic way that everyone had eventually got used to as the fleet began its chasse of the Spanish ships that had preluded to the face off they were now participants in.

'Not now, do you mind? We have a war to win.'

Both men fell silent, hunched over their weapons, waiting for the order to unleash hell onto their foes, the chaos of annihilation surrounding them.

When the sudden command came to fire, both jumped, astonished momentarily by the order, then rushed into action, firing off the first of what was to be several shots, each one propelling itself through the side of the other ships, one crashing through the old tree of a mast and toppling it into the sea like a falling tree of burnt canvas, ropes untwisting and snaking away as the once-dominating structure crashed down into the crushing depths of Davy Jones' locker. The luminous glow of flames reflected off the water, amber tendrils grasping at the noonday sky, snarling as it charred the wood that fuelled its reign over the armada.

As they drew up alongside the familiar hull of another ship, the colours of the French flag adorning its mast, the violence really began for the men onboard, as the two combatants struggled for dominance, crashing into the starboard side and breaking in the walls of the ship, timber splitting, splintering, sending shards flying through the air, as the surge of the other vessel powered them both through the water, meeting them with the frenzied rage of the Furies themselves.

To their horror, the side of the ship rippled and began to fragment in front of them, the entire side of the ship fracturing, maimed and mutilated, the protective sheen of wood being ripped from the struts keeping the thing together. Both men crouched behind their designated cannon, waiting for the shrapnel to stop flying, the injured to stop screaming, the relentless offensive to cede.

'Where to now?' begged the question that both put to words once the rain of debris had eased off, the wreckage left behind them. 'Topside?' Elyan suggested, a shaken undertone to his voice that hid behind steely conviction.

'Aye. Topside.'

Both nodded for a moment, then scrambled up, almost tripping over fallen men, bits of marred rubble and half-mangled remains of the armoury. Blinking in response to the sudden glare of sunlight as they emerged up onto the deck, the duo was set upon by another crewman, this one holding a rifle and yelling at them, barking orders in the midst of the gunsmoke and entropy. 'Grab a gun and shoot, for the love of King and Country, or so help me God.'

'Nice to meet you too. And you are?'

'A soldier.' The other man tossed the weapon towards Elyan, then aimed, squinting his eyes, and fired another shot out into the chaos. 'Less about me, more about the task at hand.'

Elyan grabbed the rifle, ramming the shot down the barrel and aiming at someone he'd picked out at random from across the deck, matching up the sights on the gun and trying to steady his unwillingly shaking hands.

He closed his eyes as he fired.

~.*.~

Hours later, the final shot rang out.

Slowly, ragged breaths still heaving his body upwards, Lancelot's world began to swim back into focus. Before that, it had all been a crazed blur of smoke and yelling, the purple-black bruise where the gun's recoil had been slamming into his collarbone now aching dully under his shirt, the blisters on his hands and feet starting to throb, the pain starting to register after the mindlessness of the fighting.

His companions too, looked like they were waking up from some psychedelic dream, dazed into a half-alive, reflexive state, reacting like animals did, automatically and without thinking, their only focus the arduous task of staying alive. Fatigued from the exertion, one of them looked up from where he had been propping himself up on his gun, barrel indenting into the deck. 'I never did get that name.'

'Lancelot. John Lancelot.'

'Nice not being blown to bits with you, John Lancelot.'

'Mutual. Anyone hurt?' The group of five men that had huddled together, backs to each other, each gun pointing out so that it created a star formation during the melee. Each of them glanced the others, each sporting shrapnel wounds and burns and bruises and ears bleeding from the deafening cry of the violence. Explosions of gunpowder and the crackling of the fires licked across the decks of the defeated arsenal across the water from where the small group was standing.

Wincing, one of the others tore through the hem of his blood splattered shirt, ripping a strip off, leaving a frayed edge and winding the impromptu bandage around a nasty-looking would that was bleeding profusely from his temple, blood waterfalling down his face and congealing into a harsh-looking black crust above his cheek. He smirked. 'Should probably get that seen to, huh?'

'Not on here. These doctors are mostly just carpenters given a scalpel and a couple of hacksaws.' Came the retort from the fifth member of their party.

'Thanks. That's reassuring. And you happen to be?'

'Percival.'

'Leon,' the two shook hands briefly, 'so where to now?'

Gwaine spoke up. 'Well, I'd say we get the _Excalibur_ fixed up, then head for home. C'mon, the French aren't going to surrender themselves.'

~.*.~

News travelled quickly.

The crew of the flagships _HMS Victory_ and _Excalibur _were hailed as heroes when they returned to England, pulling into Southampton ports like jubilant knights returning from a quest.

They said if it hadn't been for the bravery of the sailors onboard those ships, England would have fallen to the French conquest.

All because England had its protectors. England had its Guardians. This realm wasn't going to be overthrown today.

That would come later.


End file.
